


Throwing Dirt

by musiclily88



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ATTENTION, Attention-seeking, Canon Compliant, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Night Terrors, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, References to Depression, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 09:44:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12340218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: Draco wonders whose attention Harry really wants





	Throwing Dirt

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on the Charlie Puth song "Attention," with title stolen from the lyrics.

Draco has scars, just like everyone else he knows. He’s pretty sure no one’s immune, even with magical healing, even with the immediate topical application of potions and poultices. He’s stooped to trying Muggle remedies, with no genuine result. Basically, his entire generation’s fucked. 

He has scars. First off, he has the Dark Mark on his left forearm, scratched over many times with knives and razors and his fingernails and with curses burning from the tip of his wand. He knows the Mark is indelible, he knew it even when he tried to remove it from his body the first time. 

He tried a total of five times, with various techniques, before acknowledging to himself that the ink would never leave; all he could do was malign it.

So Draco took a razor to his arm twice more, just to keep the thing from grinning at him, knowing full-well it wasn’t ever going to remove the thing entirely. Hash-marks are better than the grim smile, he supposes, but mostly he keeps it covered with buttoned-down sleeves, robes, or blazers.

He’s a goddamn gentleman.

-

His thing with Harry starts off with surprising innocence, snogging a little after they clock one another in the lobby of the Ministry. Draco’s there to deal with some property shite, few wanting to take his father’s faltering madness as what it is, after all, and Harry’s there to see friends. 

Harry’s there because apparently heroes actually have friends, while Draco has people who no longer know how to talk to him without wincing. Except Pansy, who has never taken his misery seriously. She usually waits for him to finish talking and then pats his arm while offering a sarcastic comment. It’s far more comforting than pitying glances.

They don’t snog _in_ the lobby of the Ministry, of course, because while Draco has exhibitionistic tendencies, Potter does not. They’ve both spent too long in the public eye, of course, but Draco learned to preen under attention while Potter starts to rankle. From the little Draco knows of Harry’s upbringing, he would assume that attention feels better than neglect—it certainly does in his own case—but he doesn’t press. Mostly because he doesn’t want to hear about it.

They leave the Ministry and go to a small café nearby, Draco ordering a bone-dry cappuccino while Potter gets hot chocolate like a child. Draco doesn’t roll his eyes, but he wants to. He looks Potter up-and-down as they find a table. His robes are open, and underneath he’s wearing a loose jumper and tattered jeans. He looks comfortable in his own skin in a way Draco has never even been able to approach. He licks his lips before taking a sip of his drink. Draco himself is wearing his robes closed, but underneath he has on skintight trousers and a button-up black dress shirt. He swallows his coffee and gives Potter a considering look.

“You look, um, nice.”

“Nice?” Draco asks, tipping his head to once side. Of course he looks nice. He always looks nice.

“Well-rested. There was a time—”

“There’s always a time,” Draco cuts him off.

“There was a time when you didn’t look so well-rested.” Leave it to Potter to insist on finishing his infuriating sentence despite the clear indication that Draco doesn’t want him to. Classic.

“Uh. I don’t feel particularly well-rested now, actually.”

“But you look—” Potter gapes for a moment before casting his eyes down, where he stares deeply into his drink.

“I know how I look.”

“Okay.” He shrugs, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. His cheeks pink up a bit, but he holds eye contact with Draco.

“And I think you like it.”

Potter nods, shortly. “I like you.”

Draco falls back against his chair, blinking. “I—didn’t expect you to admit it so readily.”

“No point, is there, denying it.” Potter sighs, gripping his mug hard. He takes a sip, casting his eyes sideways. “I like you.”

“Right.”

“You don’t like me?”

“I—I don’t know you.”

Potter purses his lips and rolls his eyes. “You do.”

“Not really.”

“Okay, then. Get to know me?”

Draco’s insides go cold. This is a step further than he’s used to, particularly with someone he hates. But he bucks up, swallowing down his fear like a bad sip of wine. “I did always wonder, what’s your heritage? Sorry if that’s—”

Harry cuts him off. “It’s not racist. Not exactly. It’s—insensitive, I guess, but I did offer you questions.” He sighs. “I’m Pakistani and Irish.”

“Thus the dark hair.”

“And the eyes,” Harry agrees, gesturing vaguely to his face. His glasses are smudged and dirty. Draco wants to take him home and fix everything that’s wrong with him.

“Potter, though—”

“It’s a translation, or a permutation, or something, Hermione told me. She looked it up.”

“Oh?”

“I asked her to.”

“Good of her.”

“She’s my best friend,” Harry snaps, eyes narrowing.

“I know she is.” Draco takes a sip of his drink. “This was a bad idea.”

“Stop that.” Harry’s forehead is creased, and he looks more murderous than Draco’s seen him in ages. It’s uncomfortably attractive, and Draco hates him for it, along with everything else.

Draco sighs, setting his mug down. “Come to mine?”

Harry grins, stupid and bright. “Thought you’d never ask.”

They don’t finish their drinks, instead leaving the café and finding an isolated spot before Draco grabs Harry’s arm so they can Apparate together.

 

-

They land in the corner of Draco’s front room, directly on top of his Oriental rug. With his arm still in Draco’s hand, Potter rounds on him, shoving him against the nearest wall and diving in for a kiss. Draco huffs out a shocked breath directly into Potter’s open mouth but then he sinks into the kiss, glad for it. He lets his arms fall, grasping hard against Potter’s waist, trying to find purchase. He growls a bit, low in his throat, shoving the robes aside so he can grip at Potter’s hips tighter.

Potter moves one hand to the nape of Draco’s neck, yanking at a fistful of his hair. This should upset Draco much, much more than it does—his hair is a work of art that requires time and careful preparation, after all—but instead it makes him growl again. He snakes a needy hand beneath Potter’s jumper, greedy for the warmth of his skin. Potter mewls gently at the touch, a fact that Draco files away for later, cataloguing it in the back of his mind with every other tiny thing he knows about Harry.

Draco gets breathless as their chests press against one another, as they start to grind together impulsively. Harry’s skin burns beneath Draco’s fingers as he kneads at it, pressing his fingertips in with fervour. Harry’s lips detach from his and he moves down to Draco’s jaw, lathing at his neck and his collarbone so harshly that Draco starts to pant, knocking his head back against the wall.

Draco belatedly hears a tinny trill and all of a sudden Harry’s not on him anymore, is backing away, clothes more dishevelled than ever. Draco whines a bit, at a loss, but Harry’s looking at his watch, frowning, not paying him any attention at all. Which, frankly, just don’t do.

“What in Merlin’s fuck, Potter?”

He looks up, giving Draco an apologetic quirk of his mouth. “Is it not Harry, now?”

Draco rolls his eyes, still trying to catch his breath. “What in Merlin’s fuck, Harry?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

Harry looks back at his watch. “I have to go.”

“You have to go.”

“I know it sounds like an excuse, but it’s not. There are—circumstances, and like—I need to—”

Draco shakes his head. “Go be a hero?”

Harry grimaces. “Not exactly.”

“Well, go where you’re needed,” Draco says. What he doesn’t say is _I need you here, you’re needed here, stay, please don’t leave me alone._

“Right,” Harry drawls, one eyebrow raised as if Draco’s mind is open for anyone to read. Which is frankly ridiculous, because Harry’s a shit Legilimens and Draco _knows_ this. He drops his arm, moving back into Draco’s personal space. “Let’s get dinner tomorrow.”

“Dinner?” Draco knows his eyes are wide, but he thinks that’s an acceptable reaction to shock.

Harry nods. “Tomorrow.” He leans in, planting a small kiss on Draco’s cheek. “Seven-thirty.” Without another word, he Apparates away.

Draco slides down the wall until he’s sitting, knees bent up in front of him. He bangs his head against the wall once, groaning. “Where am I supposed to meet you, you absolute idiot?” he yells into the empty room.

-

He gets an owl later that afternoon, note attached to her ankle. The scrawl is atrocious, but it’s technically legible, and Draco reads the address for a spot in Muggle London. He spends the next twelve hours trying to decide what to wear, which is fine, because he doesn’t really sleep much anymore. Not really.

Even under Veritaserum, though, he’d try to deny how nervous he feels as he gets dressed. Knowing they’re going to a Muggle area, he forgoes the robes and steps into skin-tight black denim, topping it with a dark green button-up and a grey blazer. He looks smart, he knows he does, and he doesn’t think Potter’s that hard to impress, given his own sartorial choices of any given day.

Draco hates that he wants to impress Harry, but he’s always hated that. And he’s always wanted to impress Harry. All his life, he’s yearned for attention, trying to glean even scraps of positivity from the barren landscape of his childhood. The setting was always sumptuous enough but bare of positivity from anyone bar his mother, who was generally too sickly to fill the emotional void in the middle of his chest. _Sickly_ was her word for it, anyhow, although it eventually became something more akin to depression, once Draco read up on mental maladies.

Eventually, he stops over-thinking it and instead puts on just a touch of cologne before Apparating into London’s West End.

-

Harry’s already there when he pops into view. He’s leaning against the wall of the brick alleyway, cigarette burning bright in his left hand. He’s got on dark-blue denim and a burgundy jumper, both of which fit him sinfully, showing off his muscular thighs and biceps. Draco wonders who helped him dress this evening.

“I didn’t know you smoke,” Draco says, smoothing back his hair. He feels off-kilter and out of sorts already.

“Nervous habit.” Harry drops the half-smoked cigarette onto the ground and stomps out the flame.

“You’re nervous?” Something stills inside Draco’s chest, knowing he’s not the only one bricking it.

Harry grimaces. “Let’s get dinner.”

Draco snorts. “You’re the saviour of the wizarding world, though.”

“I regret this.”

“You’re the Chosen One!” Draco says, his voice ringing with laughter.

“You’re the worst.” Harry buries his face in both hands, groaning.

“You’re Harry blooming Potter!”

“I hate you.” His voice is muffled by his hands, but Draco understand the point.

“And yet, here you are,” Draco points out, his stomach finally settling.

Harry sighs, lifting up his head. “Here I am indeed.”

“So. Shall we?” Draco gestures with one arm, letting Harry take the lead. “You know where we’re going, after all. I don’t.”

Harry pushes away from the wall and they set off, walking alongside one another companionably. “You look nice.”

Draco smiles, looking at Harry out of the corner of his eye. “Thanks. You too.” He’s not above mind-games, when called for but this situation feels almost—wholesome, in an unexpected fashion. Potter’s open admission of being nervous, rather than unnerving Draco, set him right. He’s not a saint, though. “Who helped you get dressed, then?”

Harry shrugs sheepishly, ducking his chin down. “Luna.”

“She’s got good taste.”

“Yeah?” He sounds hopeful, and it makes Draco’s chest clench.

“Yeah. You look—nice in red. Bloody good thing you got sorted into Gryffindor.”

Harry laughs. “It was a near thing, actually.”

“Wha’dyou mean?”

“Oh. I, like, had a choice.”

“To do what?”

“The Hat considered putting me in Slytherin.”

Draco’s jaw clenches. “And you said, what, anything but Slytherin?”

“…Kind of,” Harry admits sheepishly, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “To be fair, I was eleven.”

“To be fair,” Draco points out, jaw still working, “we were all eleven.”

Harry grasps Draco by the hand, letting their hands dangle between their bodies. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Draco asks, genuinely wondering. There’s a myriad of things he could be apologizing for, after all.

“For insulting you.”

Draco snorts. “Never worried you much before.”

“To be fair, I was—”

“Eleven, yeah, I know.”

“No,” Harry replies slowly, turning to look at Draco. “I was in the closet and in denial.”

“Oh.”

“Plus I spent most of my childhood neglected and abused. So.” Harry shrugs, a smile playing at his lips.

“Hey now, that’s another thing we’ve got in common,” Draco says as he tries to remember how to breathe.

“You don’t say.” Harry looks away from Draco, but he’s still smiling a bit. “Guess you endured lots of comments about how being different is horrible and you’d die a disgusting, shameful death, too?”

“They weren’t so blatant,” Draco murmurs, considering. “More passive-aggressive. Lots of paternal sneering.”

“Your mum doesn’t care?”

“Not sure she understands what’s going on half the time.” He sighs. “But no, she doesn’t care. That’s—kind of a blessing, I suppose.” He leaves the topic of his father unexplored. “How far away are we from this place, then?”

“Nearly there.” Harry points to an Italian place with a red storefront as they start to cross the street.

“And who chose the restaurant, then?”

“I did!” Harry crows, making Draco stop to laugh.

“All right, Casanova, just checking. Lead the way.”

Harry sweeps ahead of him, still looking miffed. Once they’re inside, though, he smiles warmly at the hostess and tells her he has a reservation. They’re shown to a small table, a two-seater, where a tapered candle sits in between their bread plates. It’s quaint and cosy, the décor matching Harry’s jumper a bit. He does look good in red.

They order drinks with quiet voices, Draco getting a glass of Merlot and Harry ordering a draught beer. Draco then peruses the dinner options, eyes cast down. “Why did you invite me here, then?”

“Here? They have a really great veal parmesan.”

Draco splutters, looking up at Harry, who’s openly grinning. He rolls his eyes. “Why’d you invite me to dinner, you prat?”

“Burying the hatchet, getting to know one another, interhouse morale?”

“We’re not in school anymore, Harry.”

“No, we’re not, are we, Draco?”

“I’m at a loss, here,” Draco admits, even as it pains him to do so.

“I really do want to get to know you.”

“You probably know more about me than most, really,” Draco says, closing his menu. He’s going to order the veal parmesan. “Spent enough time obsessing about one another, we have.”

“Have we?” Harry responds, his brows furrowing so much that they meet in the middle of his forehead.

“I reckon so.”

“But we’re not in school anymore, Draco.”

“No. We’re not.”

-

Draco makes some offhand comment about garlic being an aphrodisiac but also not a particularly romantic food as they exit the restaurant. Harry huffs, moving his hand into Draco’s and giving it a small squeeze. The night air cooled while they were eating, and Draco shivers a bit as they leave.

“Hey. Apparate back to mine?” he asks, biting at the corner of his mouth.

“For a nightcap?”

“Yeah, or coffee.”

“You don’t drink coffee,” Draco says, recalling the hot chocolate from their earlier encounter.

“And you don’t look like you need a nightcap,” Harry retorts, smirking. He grabs Draco’s arm and they Apparate without another word.

-

Harry’s place is a tip, kind of, particularly as compared to Draco’s. He has jumpers and blankets draped over the backs of his chairs and couches, along with books littered across all flat surfaces. He makes no apologies for the state of things, and Draco’s not sure whether or not to be annoyed.

Harry runs a hand through his hair, letting go of Draco’s arm. “It’s not quite a palace,” he notes, which keeps Draco from saying something snotty.

“It’s all right,” Draco concedes, taking off his blazer. “Where should I put this?” he asks, casting his glance around the room.

Harry wordlessly moves the blazer from Draco’s hand to the coatrack in the corner of the sitting room. Wandless magic. “If that’s all right.”

“That’s all right.”

Harry nods once, taking his wand out of his back pocket and setting it aside. He moves his hands down to the hem of his jumper before yanking it up over his head. “Hope this is okay too,” he adds, slightly muffled by the fabric in front of his face.

Harry tosses the jumper onto the floor, his glasses slightly askew. He still has on a white shirt, and his chest is heaving beneath it.

“Define okay,” Draco asks slowly, his eyes tracing down Harry’s torso.

Harry dives forward, latching his lips onto Draco’s immediately. Draco hasn’t even had time to take off more than just his blazer, and his hands come to rest on Harry’s upper arms. Harry’s skin is hot under Draco’s palms, and he squeezes tightly, trying to capture some of the errant heat. Their mouth open for one another, slick lips and teeth knocking together, and it feels clumsy but it also feels _right._

Draco knew pretty early on that he was a bit mad where Potter was concerned, but he didn’t put the whole picture together until the Yule Ball, when he and Pansy kissed under the mistletoe. They had both backed away from one another, spluttering and laughing and vowing _never again._ It was Pansy who pointed out his single-mindedness, the obsessional quality his life took on whenever Harry showed his face. It’s not that Draco didn’t know he was desperate for Harry’s attention and approval—it just wasn’t immediately clear as to _why._

On some level, he was always searching for this.

If that way Harry’s kissing him is any indication, he believes Harry was searching for him too. Harry puts his hands on Draco’s waist and clamps down, using Draco like an anchor or a lifeline, like they can save one another from the storm that is their world.

Draco pulls away quickly, just a bit, so he can murmur, “Get me out of these clothes immediately, Potter. You’re wasting valuable time.”

Harry laughs, a long bright sound, before his hands move away from Draco’s waist to the buttons of his shirt. He’s careful with them, and while Draco appreciates the respect given to his fine, expensive clothing, he’s also very impatient. “I think we were always wasting valuable time.”

“Hm?” Draco hums, watching Harry’s deft hands undo his buttons, maddeningly slow. He’s lost in his jumbled, sexual thoughts, and he finds that he’s shaking a little bit.

“Fighting all the time, hating each other.” Harry gets the last button and untucks Draco’s shirt before rucking it off his shoulders.

“Think of it as foreplay,” Draco says on a sigh, shrugging off the shirt.

Harry laughs again. “Oh?”

“We were always going to end up here.” Draco moves his shirt so it’s hanging next to his blazer. He has more respect for his clothing than Harry does.

“Oh, well if it was inevitable, then, I’ll forget that you just called two eleven-year-olds being shirty towards one another _foreplay.”_

“We can explore your age-play fetish another time, Harry. Right now, I demand to see what you look like when you come.”

Harry looks amused for a moment as he unbuttons his jeans. “You demand, huh?”

“Yes. And I have very high expectations. I’m very hard to please.”

“Doubtful,” Harry counters, letting the loose denim drop to his ankles. He’s not wearing any pants beneath, and for a moment Draco forgets how to speak. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Draco takes off his own jeans and steps out of them, folding them before sending them across the room by the coatrack. He has on black boxer-briefs, tight against his slim hips, and he enjoys the way Harry’s eyes rake up and down his body. “Such bravado,” Draco purrs, smirk quick on his lips.

“Oh fuck off,” Harry growls, moving back into Draco’s personal space so he can kiss a sloppy line up Draco’s neck.

“Say please.”

“Please.”

-

Next they’re in Harry’s room, stumbling across the flat while attached at the lips. It’s a lot, it’s heady and aggressive on both their parts, some kind of tension finally released into the air between their bodies. They detach so Draco can step out of his boxer-briefs, Harry whining as he does so.

“So needy, Potter.”

“Best not to waste time,” Harry counters, smiling at him, wide as anything. He beckons Draco closer and they fall onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and knocked knees. Harry huffs out a laugh. “Graceful, are you?”

“Not always,” Draco admits, pulling a face. He pulls back, levering up with his palms flat on the mattress so he can hover over Harry. “What do you want?”

“You.” He seems earnest, but he often is, and his green eyes have a brightness to them that Draco suspects might contain unshed tears.

“How?”

“However you want.”

Draco nods slowly, dipping to kiss against Harry’s lips softly. He moves one arm up from the mattress, snaking it down towards Harry’s cock. He’s already hard and leaking, and Draco groans against Harry’s mouth, opening his lips and pressing their tongues together. He thumbs against Harry’s slit, taking his time.

Harry whines into Draco’s mouth. Draco smiles into their kiss, moving his fingers until they form a fist around the base of Harry’s cock. He murmurs a spell so his hand slicks up, and Harry whines again. Draco pulls away, a slick smile on his lips. “So needy, Potter.”

“For you, yeah,” Harry admits, his eyes falling shut.

With that, Draco wastes no more time, speeding up the fisting of his hand on Harry’s cock. “So pretty, laid out for me, aren’t you,” he asks before licking Harry’s collarbone.

“Maybe,” Harry concedes breathlessly, his head knocked back against the pillows.

“No maybe about it. You’re pretty for me.”

Harry sighs. “For you. Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Draco grins to himself, speeding up the rhythm of his hand, latching his lips against Harry’s collarbone again. He hums when Harry comes, sending ropes onto his own stomach and against Draco’s fist.

-

They sleep soundly eventually, after Harry teases Draco with his closed thighs and a bit of frottage. They’re both naked and sated, and it’s more or less precisely what Draco wanted from the night.

Perhaps that’s indicative of something.

-

Potter is pliant in the morning, sleep-heavy with easily manoeuvered limbs and warm pink lips. He reaches full consciousness just as Draco swallows him down nearly to the base of his cock, practically asphyxiating on Harry’s dick. Potter groans, cupping a hand at the back of Draco’s neck, stroking his hair. Draco hums a bit at the sensation, and Harry grinds out a curse, voice still rough from sleep.

He doesn’t last long, coming thick and hot down Draco’s working throat. Draco swallows and moves to lie next to Harry, both of them panting. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it when you were sleeping.”

“There’s no honour in that kind of killing,” Harry points out, still petting Draco’s hair, which is typically a murderous offense. For Potter, he thinks perhaps he’ll let it slide—which is also indicative of something.

He pushes the thought from his mind, rolling his eyes. “No honour left in the Malfoy name, really, is there?”

Harry chuckles a little, yanking harder at Draco’s hair. “Self-pity doesn’t look good on you.”

“No?”

“Never did.”

“What does, then? Come on, Potter, flatter me with your creative compliments already.”

Harry’s hand stills, no longer carding through Draco’s hair. He gestures vaguely to Draco’s body before saying, “This, for a start.”

“Absolutely nothing barring, possibly, a little bit of come from last night?” Draco wrinkles his nose. “Gods, I really ought to shower.”

“More’n welcome to it. The knobs are finnicky, though. There’s a trick to ‘em.”

Draco leers. “There always is.”

“The _shower_ knobs, you knob.”

“Well. Maybe you’ll have to show me.”

-

The showing of things last many, many months, and they explore many surfaces with their bodies and their kissing and their half-serious insults and their fully-serious compliments.

They show up in the society pages of _The Prophet_ beneath libelous headlines, pictures showing them holding hands as they walk through magical London. Their grins are evident even in the grainier photos, laughter shining bright in their eyes. Some articles ask how Draco manipulated Harry into the who ordeal, big circles spotlighting the love-bites sometimes adorning Harry’s neck. Others wonder if Potter’s investigating Draco as part of some crime syndicate, going undercover as his lover.

Draco grimaces, tossing the newspaper into the flames one morning over a breakfast of scones and tea. “I hate the word _lover.”_

Harry snorts, pinching off a bite of a raspberry scone. “What?”

“The old gossip rag again.” They don’t truly talk about how much it bothers the both of them, the unnecessary press and the false news about their relationship, such as it is. There are times they don’t talk of anything important at all, especially not Draco’s mother’s failing health or Harry’s night terrors. They don’t talk about Draco’s scars—any of them—or the one potion and two pills Harry takes every evening.

“Is that—not the correct nomenclature for us, then?” Harry asks, one eyebrow raised, mouth quirked. “Lovers?”

Draco gags, threatening to pour his tea into Harry’s lap. “Don’t be vile.”

It was only later that Draco came to realize that he was the one who took the assertion a bit too seriously, while Harry played more fast-and-loose with labels, and connections, and potentially with Draco himself.

-

Draco’s mother takes a turn for the worse, both mentally and physically, and he finds her the best possible suite in St. Mungo’s. She has the entire East Wing, but she’s barely well enough to enjoy the sumptuousness of it. 

She’s barely well enough to keep her eyes open most of the time.

Draco doesn’t much _enjoy_ the sumptuousness of the suite, but he appreciates the platter of constantly-refilling pastries and the always-hot pot of tea. His comatose mother can barely even appreciate his hand in hers, most days, and he paces whenever he’s not clutching at her.

Periodically he remembers to eat, but mostly he just offers food to guests who visit her before making a hasty exit so he needn’t watch them awkwardly speak to her pale, sleeping face.

 

When the machines stop beeping and the Healers pull increasingly sympathetic faces at him, Draco falls apart.

-

He, like his mother, takes to bed, but his bed is at the Manor. He manages funeral arrangements through his solicitor and tries his best to waste away.

Potter keeps trying to Floo-call him, and he sends owls, and he sends message to Draco’s wand through that weird watch of his, but Draco ignores it all in favour of staring at the ceiling, or the wall, or the inside of his eyelids, for two whole weeks.

-

Eventually Draco gets out of bed and dresses, picking up the stacked newspapers his house-elves have left for him, picking up a dry piece of toast. 

Apparently they know what the grieving prefer.

Draco nearly spits out the bread when he spies the pictures in the Society pages, however—all glossy-bright images of Harry out on the town, Harry on the prowl, Harry looking for some kind of _attention._

Harry hates the limelight, hates reporters and paparazzi getting in his face and asking invasive questions. Harry hates adoration, generally speaking, except from the people he really enjoys—Granger, the bloody Weasleys, Longbottom, and Lovegood.

Draco’s maybe the last on the list of people from whom Potter likes getting attention, but regardless, the list is short.

Or, it was.

-

Draco returns to wearing black, his blazers buttoned up neat and tidy, his shoes shined and polished. Harry has the nerve to attend the funeral, but he sits with Granger and Weasley, and he doesn’t approach Draco at all. Really, Draco’s not sure which detail is the most insulting.

-

Harry’s in the papers for _weeks_ following, done up pretty and bright-eyed, putting on the smile Draco knows is fake. Draco takes to the bottle rather than to the razor, rationalizing that it’s only brandy, after all. 

After he’s sick twice in the toilet, he decides to just—take back to his bed and leave it at that.

-

Draco hears his Floo go one Friday mid-afternoon, and he swears he shut it down the night before. He has a huge pile of newsprint stacked by his bed, partly because he’s pathetic and partly because maybe his orders to stop delivery haven’t gone through somehow.

He just keeps seeing Harry’s face, over and over, with a big bright grin and rumpled hair.

“Bugger off, please!” he yells to the Floo intruder, turning his face into his pillow.

“Can’t do,” Harry states, launching onto Draco’s bed, knocking his elbow against Draco’s shoulder.

“I hate you.”

“I’m staying anyhow.”

Draco rolls away from him, nearly tossing himself against the wall beside his bed.

“I know you’re upset with me.”

“Damn right,” Draco mutters, his face shoved into a crease in his down pillow.

“But, see here, the thing is—” Harry falters, moving closer so he can wrap an arm around Draco’s waist. “I don’t quite understand why.”

Draco flails, dislodging Harry’s arm and kicking him soundly in the shin. He turns over and shoves Harry so bodily that he falls out of Draco’s bed entirely. “Fuck off.”

Harry’s backside and shoulders hit the floor hard, but he doesn’t so much as yelp. Instead, he crawls back into Draco’s bed. “No.”

“Mother’s dead.” Draco turns away from him again, curling towards the wall.

“I know.”

“And you’re here.”

“I am,” Harry acknowledges, keeping his distance from Draco’s body. Draco can hear him breathing.

“After being on the social scene for weeks on end, that is,” Draco snaps, kicking one leg backwards. He doesn’t connect with Harry’s, but his intention is clear. He’s aiming to hurt. “Anything for a bit of attention, hm?”

Draco’s imagined it, and the entire concept is hateful to him. Harry at parties and clubs, skin sweat-hot and his shirt sticking to his chest, cologne pooling at his pulse-points. Harry pulling a hot randomer in a dirty toilet stall, never even getting his name. Harry, wanting attention, wanting attention, wanting attention.

“Well, if you’ve already got the whole story, then what am I even doing here?” Harry spits back, rolling further away from Draco.

“Fuck if I know.” Draco pulls his legs up closer to his chest, curling nearly into a ball.

“You think I—you honestly believe I _liked_ that press attention, that bullshit?

“Certainly looked like you did, mate.”

_“Mate?”_ Harry’s fully out of bed now, and Draco can hear him start to pace the floor. “Like we’re friends?”

“Less than.”

“I wasn’t agreeing, I was—” Harry huffs a sigh, then snarls.

“I’m not arguing with you. I’m sick of arguing with you,” Draco counters. He twists his hands together, his palms clammy.

“I love you. I was looking for you, I guess, in part.”

“You honestly thought—”

“No, I didn’t think I’d find you. Not really.”

Draco flips over, finally sitting up to face Harry. “Just like I didn’t honestly think you’d be out getting your rocks off at every club worth its salt, but it looks like I was wrong.”

“Did you hear the part where I said I love you?” Harry’s face is cloudy, nearly murderous.

“Get out!” Draco grapples at his bedside table, searching for his wand.

Harry smirks, infuriating Draco to no end. “So you did hear me.”

Draco launches out of bed and lunges towards Harry, knocking him against the wall. “I heard you, and I don’t give a shit.”

Harry’s hands immediately find Draco’s waist, his grip tight. He licks his lips once before leaning in to slowly kiss Draco, who remains frozen, his hands planted firmly on Harry’s chest. He has time to chase Harry away, if he wants, really wants, but he doesn’t move. He lets himself be kissed, and eventually, he kisses back.

-

 

The society pages contain pictures of Harry plenty over the following months, but none of them go to _The Prophet._ They’re sumptuous, colour-filled candids, mostly of him with Draco in Harry’s warm sitting room or Draco’s impressive kitchen. The photos betray that they have stars in their eyes for one another, even when Draco and his favourite house-elf are tossing almond flour directly into Harry’s face.


End file.
